Loss for Words
by Blancwene
Summary: Amidst the horrors of the Clone Wars, sometimes even Obi Wan finds himself at a loss for words. An Obi&Siri poem.


**AN:** For **obaona** and **Jedikma**, who love Obi/Siri. Originally written as a short snippet to convince **oba** that she should write a poem; somehow it spawned into this. Not what I expected at all. I'm not _too_ familiar with Siri, so I did my best. Thanks for clicking!

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**Loss for Words**

* * *

He has never known  
such filth before  
when dirt has been added  
to other layers of grime  
deep,  
engrained  
in the creases formed  
around his eyes –  
another souvenir  
of an unwanted conflict,  
a life-or-death scenario  
where any moment  
that could be him:  
another weathered  
beaten  
neglected  
body on a foreign field.

He turns away,  
seeks to purge  
those thoughts  
but they stick  
like the dirt and grime  
once fine grain  
easily brushed away  
but now hardened  
and not even  
the most thorough wash  
can erase the horrors –  
unthinkable scenes –  
that he has witnessed  
and even  
experienced.

Perhaps she understands –  
perhaps she too  
feels the weight  
of soiled memories  
filling cracks and crevices  
of her soul  
until the good times  
become inseparable  
from the hopeless  
remembrances.

He calls her name –  
short, rolling off his tongue  
far too easily  
and barely expressing  
the nuances of her personality –  
"Siri" –  
abrupt,  
disappearing quickly,  
the vowel fading away  
when he wishes  
it would linger  
a sweet, cheering sound –  
positively connotated,  
still crisp and clean.

But those useless inner criticisms  
don't escape as  
spoken thoughts –  
built up  
like the ancient dust  
into a secure cage  
for his opinions  
and beliefs –  
the true ones, not  
his usual witty remarks  
directed towards Anakin  
or her  
or others;  
frothy idioms  
that could never touch upon  
the uncertainties within  
his mind, puzzles  
for the conscience.

She appears ahead  
moving slowly,  
a small figure –  
bloodied, dirtied –  
with an air of fatigue  
one can only acquire  
from the filth  
of battle and  
broken dreams;  
everywhere he sees  
the outward signs:  
the grit, the lines  
the physical remnants of  
the chaos of war  
in the bruise on her chin,  
the blood on her suit –  
for the fall from naïveté  
to battered maturity  
always leaves scars.

The sunlight dims,  
a pale yellow glow  
replaces the harsh  
white  
directional glare  
as noon fades  
to late afternoon –  
he looks at her again  
surprised  
for the gentle beams  
reveal more:  
past the grime,  
past the despair,  
beauty hides in  
her downcast eyes  
their lids veiling  
a gaze of purest blue –  
and beneath her soiled face  
lurks a flushed cheek  
and lips longing  
to smile and laugh, even  
her hair  
shines brighter, like  
tiny strands of spun gold  
under a murky  
covering of filth.

Beauty in ashes,  
loveliness still remains  
amidst the blood,  
and dirt,  
and grime –  
hope walking free  
through the carnage  
of shattered ideals.

She stops before him,  
a questioning look  
probing his reticence  
and prodding against  
the worn façade,  
the mental layers  
of dust protecting  
his innermost thoughts.

"What do you want?"  
she asks  
plainly, waiting  
for a commonplace reply,  
his normal response –  
stiff upper lip  
and a smidgen of humour  
preserved even among  
the dead bodies  
from this unending war.

He shakes his head,  
wondering at the  
absurdity of it all –  
the phoenix rises  
from the ashes  
oblivious of the contrast  
between its magnificent form  
and the cold, harsh ruins  
of that forgotten fire –  
beauty, unknowing, in ashes.

He opens his mouth  
gathers breath, tries  
to force  
the words out  
but nothing comes  
nothing  
gagging on the empty  
space he has  
created  
he struggles  
searches  
for the phrases,  
so precise and clear,  
expressing all  
that he saw -  
perfection present along with desolation  
and beauty visible beneath the practical Siri -  
yet his thoughts retreat  
and all that remain  
are poor substitutions  
vague ambiguities  
so he swallows them,  
he will not accept  
the second-best,  
and lapses into  
silence.

"Obi-Wan? Are you on my wavelength?  
Hello? Calling Jedi Kenobi from somewhere  
off in deep space . . . Obi, snap out of it!"

The bleak intensity  
reemerges, the bright light  
concealing the beauty  
and emphasizing the dirt –  
the moment lost  
with reality's return,  
he smiles sadly and  
looks away  
back to the ordinary world  
of ugliness and hopelessness.

"Sorry, I was  
just  
a little  
lost for words."

FIN


End file.
